by Reapers
“Just another day at the office,” I comment as I keep laying on the AUS until the Mist of Stankonia clears. We’re greeted with a trumpet, some EXP and a little pixie hovering in the air like a humming bird.
~*~
“You saved me!”
The crap pixie is as gold as pirate’s booty and in a skimpy outfit too, her naughty bits barely covered by a tattered skirt. About the size of an anatomically correct transgender Caitlin Jenner Barbie – the West Coast version rather than the Alabama version – she’d be cute if it weren’t for the fact that her main interest is artisanal bottom nuggets. “And for saving me, I’ll reward you!” She waves her hand and our life bars return to 100%. Much to Frances’ intense and obvious relief, the shit stains and skid marks vanish in a sparkly poof of pinkish pixie powder.
Sophia floats up to greet her and does her look at me, I can speak Thulean thing. Again.
The fairy does a little shake with her derriere and pixie dust sprinkles to the ground like flatulent oak pollen. “No Thulean, please,” she squeaks in a high-pitched voice. “The common tongue is better for me. If you want my help, just ask.”
“Why do we want the crap fairy’s help?” I grouse.
Frances looks at me as one would an annoying and not particularly bright child. “To get out of this sewer.”
“You want out?” asks the fairy. “Well, I guess I could show you the way, but now is the absolute best time to find treasure. The BEST! Besides, it’s not like you’re in a maze or something. Just follow this path and boom, you’ll reach the ladder.” She twists higher into the air and takes a big whiff, exhales deeply. “Did I mention that I love treasure?”
“I hate to break it to you, Stinkerbell, but digging through giant shit for treasure isn’t exactly a hobby to be proud of.”
She stops just in front of me, bright as a candle up close, her legs and arms covered in glitter and iridescent Thulean tattoos. “I’m aware that it isn’t a hobby, Steamboy. It’s a calling; it’s a profession!”
Rocket: A shitty profession! Did I do that right?
Me: You did. Soon you’ll be at my level.
Sophia: Please. Please, no.
“Besides,” says the poo pixie, “I actually find treasure sometimes. Real treasure.”
“What kind of treasure?” asks Veenure.
“Different materials, which I sell to the pirates along the northern coastline.”
“Any materials we’d be interested in?” I ask both her and Sophia. I shrug, figuring it can’t hurt.
Stinkerbell does a flying sit spin and farts pixie dust on the landing. “Chronoton. A good blacksmith can use that to do a number of interesting things with it, including creating doors.”
“A blacksmith to create a door?” I ask. “You’ve got your trade skills mixed up.”
“A Reality Splitter,” Sophia sucks in her breath as her eyes go wide. “Which can be used to cut through the game-time continuum.”
“Admit it. You’re just having fun with words now, aren’t you?”
Veenure nods excitedly. “And into the OMIP, right?”
“It can cut through this,” I say, waving my hand in front of me, “and connect to the inverse world?”
“Precisely!”
“Why is it a weapon again?” I ask Sophia.
“A Reality Splitter is a hand axe-like device that can cut through the game time continuum.”
“Huh?”
She draws a square in the air. “It is a metal that can cut reality, if you want to put it that way, but it stays put, so you can go in and out of the door until you place the ax back in your inventory list.”
“And this could help us free Zedic?” asks Frances.
Sophia shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.”
“And we just happen to have a blacksmith friend, ” I remind them.
“Chrono,” says Aiden, “he was logged in a few hours ago when I went back to Hyperborea to find Dirty Dave.”
Veenure says, “He even took his name from the metal.”
Sophia floats over to the fairy and makes the Hook ‘em, Horns hand gesture. A single light emits from between her two fingers. Stinkerbell’s eyes flash white and she hovers obediently, awaiting Sophia’s order.
“Igjigcha Dookh, how long will it take you to gather enough Chronoton to make a Reality Splitter?”
“It will take me at least two or three days in real world time, Dr. Wang,” she says, her voice without any inflection.
“Perfect. I want you to gather as much as you can and deliver it to me. Will you need any help?”
The turd fairy shakes her rump; pixie dust sprinkles onto the floor.
“I will get you help then,” Sophia turns and gives Aiden a sly grin.
“Not doing it,” he says, showing her his palm.
Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly. “How much sway do you have with the other NPCs in our guild?”
“Dirty Dave already has an assignment.”
“Not him, the others. You know, like the cook, the other cook and the butler guy.”
“His name is Jim,” I tell her, “and it’s Chef and the Saucier, not ‘cook’ and ‘the other cook’. If you want someone that has sway with those three, look no further.”
“What about the other two that aren’t British?”
“Croc and Cid the Bartender,” I tell her. “Any word on them, Aiden?”
“I think they’re trying to open a pub in Kriya.”
“Figures.”
“And … the British Football Hooligans?” asks Sophia with a cringe.
Aiden and I exchange glances; he shrugs. “They’ve gone … well not completely AWOL, but pretty damn close.”
I add, “They got bored and went looking for trouble, and by all accounts usually find it when they’re not drinking and whoring.” Sophia, enlightened and morally superior being that she is, makes a face at drinking and whoring.
“Apparently, they’re off somewhere doing something with someone for some reason or other, and we can’t exactly find them right now. Don’t get me wrong; they’re good guys to have in your corner, it’s just getting them there can be … mmmm … tricky some times. So no, they’re unavailable right now.”
“Whatever. Just call the first three here. They can help.” Sophia turns back to the doodie pixie. “What was your name again?”
“Mierda.”
“Okay, Mierda, meet … ” She glares at Aiden. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get them!”
I see the Slice-Bang flicker in and then back out of his grip; his fingers clench and settle.
“Easy there, Cochise. This ain’t The Loop,” I remind him softly, “and thanks for doing us all a solid.”
“Fine.” Aiden disappears, reappears all of three seconds later with Jim the Doorman, the Chef and the Saucier.
The Chef wipes his hands on the front of his apron and tosses his arms wide. “Quantum, you useless carcass!”
“Chef! If I didn’t have other pressing matters to attend to right now, I’d give you the turkey baster treatment for old times’ sake.”
Rocket: That didn’t come out right!
Me: Dammit, look in my inventory list, item 348. That turkey baster.
We embrace and I turn to Jim, who gives me a nervous smile. “Hi, Mr. Steamboy,” he says.
“Jimmy ol’ friend ol’ pal ol’ stick-in-the-mud!” I clap him on the shoulders. “Looks like we, and by we, I mean the caca fairy over there, are in need of your services!”
“Our services?” Jim gives the sewers another deadpan look and gulps.
“Everyone meet Mierda.”
“Hi, Mierda,” the three Loopers say in unison, like the participants at a mandatory FDA-AA meeting.
“Hello, immiNPCs.”
I clap my hands. “Now that we’re all pals, the three of you are going to look through giant shit over the few days in search of … ” I turn to Veenure. “What – Chronopolis?”
“Chronoton,” she says. “Like Chr
ono. You should remember that.”
“What she said. And one more thing,” I give the three of them the best Steve-O thumbs up I can muster. “Make sure the fairy doesn’t turn into a shit monster again.”
Mierda blushes, or at least it looks like she’s blushing. Hard to tell with all the gold twinkling.
“Sacre bleu!” the Saucier cries.
The Chef gives me a sour look. “Why … why this is a job for a busboy’s assistant’s intern!”
“Think of it like this – you always prepare the food that goes in, now you get to see the food that comes out. Consider it a learning experience.”
Sophia floats ahead, “That settles it then. Let’s get to the surface, find an inn, and log out.”
“Good luck!” I tell them with a smirk. The rest of us follow our PhD in residence, leaving the fairy and what’s left of the Mondegreen Hotel staff behind us.
“Va te faire foutre!” the Saucier shouts after us.
Chapter Twelve
Stinkerbell’s tinkly laughter and the three Loopers’ grousing recedes with distance and finally fades out. We make our way along the relatively unfilthy pathway until we come upon a pair of ladders bolted to the wall. The Waringtla city planners didn’t get too creative here aside from the fact that there are actually two ladders, one for regular people and one for giant freaks of nature. Veenure is first up the ladder, gung-ho as ever.
“You doing all right, sweetheart?” I ask Frances in a voice that the others can’t hear.
“Doing fine,” she says. “You?”
“There’s a pub up there,” says Aiden.
“The light at the end of the tunnel. Did you already scope it out?”
“Are you even asking me that? C’mon … How long have you known me?”
“How long have you been killing me or how long have I known you?”
“Both.”
I clap him on the shoulders. “You can take the killer out of The Loop but you can’t take The Loop out of the killer.”
“Back atcha,” he grins.
“Get a room, you two,” Sophia comments as she flutters into the air.
~*~
“Now that’s what I call a fight your way in and fight your way out kind of place,” I say as I give the Tabard Inn a once over. It’s a big pub, got to be for their clientele, but there’s a smaller door for regular-sized folks next to the main entrance that is slashed and hacked, pockmarked and cratered, and adorned with mud, blood, crud and snapped-off arrow shafts. Each entrance has a scale-appropriate doorman, and they appear to be clones – both look like they were rudely chiseled out of a slab of driftwood and then etched with acid, only to be stylishly antiqued with a Terry Funk barbed-wire baseball bat (I got one, item 163).
“Well, well, well,” says Aiden, licking his lips.
“Who’s thirsty?”
I crack my knuckles. Sure, it’s a digital game – I get it, and I can’t get drunk for real – I get that too, but hell, a little panther piss never hurt anyone and I’m not about to pass up the chance to drink with giants.
“You two are the worst,” Sophia says as she floats into the air, “the worst.”
“Besides, that’s not what we’re here for,” Frances says, suddenly becoming all in-charge and team leader-ish. Well, she used to be more authoritative, but she’s softened up since Sophia came back on the scene. Personally, I’ll take Frances either way – soft or hard.
“Aiden?”
“Let’s go,” he winks and grins, “this could be fun.”
“You guys are ridic.” Veenure crosses her arms over her chest. “Complete noobs.”
“What, like I need you riding me too?” I ask her.
“We’re here on a mission and besides that, Zedic is trapped in the OMIP.”
“Okay, I get it. Keep your hair on, princess.”
Sophia de-levitates. “Some giants are coming!”
The five of us dip into the shadow of a building nearby. The street lamps don’t cast enough light to reach all the way back into the shadows where we’re crouched, but they’re bright enough to dimly illuminate a pair of big ol’ boys stumbling towards the pub, arms around each other’s shoulders in an oversized display of he-man Delta Tau Chi affection and as an aid to navigational stability. They’re not Godzilla-big, but they’re big enough in a kill your tiny ass if we step on you kind of way. Best not to get underfoot, I’m thinking.
“So that’s why I really want to … uuurrrp … meet King Coromon,” says the giant on the left, whom I’ll call Andre.
“You should, like, go to the tournament! You’ll totally win!” says giant number two, whom I’ll yclept Big Foot due to the remarkably brobdingnagian dimensions of his hirsute and callused pedal appendages, which are of unusual size, even for a giant.
“My wife told me I shouldn’t fight … shouldn’t fight no one no more. NO MORE! Too much fighting, she says.”
“You can’t let her get to you, not now, NOT NOW, not before you have the opportunity to meet the king!”
Rocket: NPC giants in an intimate moment! Proxima AI is so cool!
Me: Keep it in your pants, Peanut Gallery.
Rocket: I can’t fit a giant in my pants!
Me: Too bad – I already got one in mine.
Big Foot grabs Andre, slaps his cheek a couple of times. “Wake up man!” he gets in his face. “WAKE UP! You have to get control your own life! Get out there, win that tournament! Meet the king!”
“Meet the king … ” says Andre, two sheets more to the wind than Big Foot. “Yes, meet the king! … AAARRrrrRRP … Meet him!”
Frances Euphoria: Deets on the tournament pronto.
Rocket: Done gotta.
Me: What?
Rocket: I done got this.
Me: Did you two start taking Post-Retro Urbo-Hip-Hop Gangsta English classes or something?
Rocket: We’re just trying something new, something more urban.
Sophia: Don’t.
Rocket: Got it. Here’s the deets: there’s a tournament in a few days and the winner gets a private audience with the king.
Sophia: Interesting, more interesting because I haven’t heard of this tournament. I guess giant news doesn’t really reach Valhalla.
Frances Euphoria: Oh, ick! I could live my entire life without ever seeing that!
And that is not something you see every day. Big Foot fumbles in his codpiece and produces a most prodigious organ of reproduction; sort-of aims into a sewer grate and empties his bladder in a truly impressive display of micturitional inaccuracy. It splashes everywhere, with the sound of an FCG water cannon clearing Re-occupy Protestors from in front of the Health, Education, Welfare and Inclusion building.
“When nature calls … ” I say.
The giants hear my voice, turn to us.
Sophia: Dammit, now we have drunken giants to deal with!
Andre is the first to move towards us. Once Big Foot finishes relieving himself and adjusting his accoutrements, he joins his buddy.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THE SHADOWS?” Andre shouts. “SPYING?”
I walk out with my hands in front of me. “Heya, fellas, let’s take it down a notch.”
“He’s so little!” Big Foot snorts.
Sometimes my mouth has a life of its own, and it frequently gets me in more trouble than any two other parts of my body – yes, including that one – combined. With no apparent input from my brain, I hear it say, “Oh yeah, Thumbelina? Well, that’s not what your mom sai … ”
The bottom of a giant foot descends like the Chelyabinsk meteor.
Fade to black.
~*~
My vision pane flashing black tells me I’m deader’n last month’s campaign promises, just in case the giant foot smashing me two-dimensional wasn’t enough of a clue. All it needs to really make it a party is Sousa’s The Liberty Bell as background music. I respawn with the group directly behind Frances, who immediately turns to me and does the single finger on her lips gesture.
> Sophia: So … stupid … that was so stupid.
Me: How long was I out?
Rocket: OMG! That was the second coolest thing I have ever seen! I have video! I have screen shots! I almost wet my pants laughing – no, I did wet my pants laughing! Oh, the look on your face! It was great!
Me: I’m glad I could bring joy into your drab, wretched existence. How long was I out?
Rocket: Respawn time is almost instantaneous in Tritania.
Veenure is apparently comforting Bigfoot. She’s astride his shoulder and whispering in his ear; he’s gulping and sobbing and hiccupping like a mama’s boy with an owie boo-boo. In a tasteful display of Giant Etiquette, he blows his nose into his hand and considerately slings the wheel barrowful of mucous away from us.
Sophia turns her head and gives me the stink eye over her shoulder. “How about keeping your mouth shut when we come across giants? Or anybody, for that matter, really. If they had alerted the authorities, we’d be toast by now.”
“Better than being buns.”
“What?”
Rocket: Even I don’t get that joke.
Aiden’s face is lit up with amusement. “You sure know how win friends and influence people, don’t you?”
“I’m not going to say it’s my specialty, but it is one of the many services I offer.”
Sophia glares at me some more. “Just let the professionals handle this, got it?”
Me: I got something.
Frances Euphoria: Easy, cowboy.
Me: Yeah, yeah, I get it, mind my manners.
Bigfoot delicately assists Veenure with her dismount, and is helped to his feet by Andre. They both bend down, and between enormous thumb and tremendous forefinger carefully shake her hand. Andre and Big Foot exit stage left, stumble-footing on their way as they sing The Ballad of Busty Gazongas, the Battlin’ Barmaid, which if I’m not mistaken, is to the same tune as Oxford Town by Bob Dylan:
Barmaids come and barmaids go, Busty breaks up any row,
Beats you down and serves you right, better think twice before you fight.
Swinging right and swinging left, Busty has the biggest breasts,
